Cruelly detached portrait of a serial killer

Hannibal; Murder on the Homefront; The Village; Copper Bottomed Blues; The West

T
here is an implicit truth that runs through American fiction: from Natty
Bumppo in The Last of the Mohicans to Die Hard’s John McClane, a leading man
must be good at his job. A guy can be a lousy husband, a dreadful father; he
can be a thief, a liar, crazy, dirty, a feckless drunk, but if he wants to
be a hero, he has to be good at a trade. Not just good, but exceptional, the
best: the best pilot, the best mechanic, detective or gunfighter. It goes
right to the heart of America that the final dignity and stature of a man is
not in what he says or how he behaves, but in what he does.

The big drama opening last week was Hannibal, the latest loud and gaudy
American series to rub English drama’s face in the mud. It comes with a
concept like a malevolent